


Sweet Water

by Quixcy



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Boys Kissing, Fluff, Ice Skating, Kissing, M/M, Rivalry, midnight kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 04:06:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8313373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quixcy/pseuds/Quixcy
Summary: Victor, having lost his passion for ice skating, sets out to create a rival worthy of him. But he never imagined that Yuuri would awaken feelings in him he'd long-since buried under a barbed smile and a heart filled with ice and snow.





	1. Sweet Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, you can call me obsessed because let's face it THIS SHOW IS LIFE. Also, #Victuri forever.
> 
> also, not beta'd so tread cautiously

This was not how he envisioned his last season.

Victor lay on the cot that was supposedly a bed, staring up at the rafters. The resort was too quiet. Every creak, every groan echoed through the walls with a ghostly sort of resonance that reminded him too much of the dorms during the Winter Olympics three years ago. Before the other countries crammed into their small rooms. When it was him, alone, in the entire complex. The gold metal hung somewhere in his apartment back in St. Petersburg, but he couldn't quite remember where.

You'd think he would keep count of his accomplishments. Display them on the wall, in glass trophies, to say  _look at all I've done and look at what you haven't._

But he knew the medal was stashed in a box somewhere in his apartment. Somewhere forgotten. It didn't matter like it should have. 

Like in the Olympic dorms, the quietness of this resort gave him time to think—and he _hated_ thinking too much. It led to second-guessing and _feelings_. He would rather drown his feelings in a nice White Russian or a portly stout or... He didn't know. Something else.

Something to make him stop  _thinking_

Something to make him stop wondering how he got _here_ of all places.

Well, he knew how he got here—the physical trajectory. Everyone across every social media platform knew. Hop on a plane, travel across water, land in Tokyo, and hopscotch his way across a confounding country to Hasetsu.

But emotionally? He was long. There was no map, no direction. There was just this hollow stretch inside of him—cold and barren.

 _On ice_ , he liked to joke.

It never bothered him until a year ago.

A year ago, after he won the Grand Prix, when he met eyes with a black-headed boy, brown eyes obscured by the glare of glasses. Lots of people stared at him. It was part of being famous and gifted with good looks. And the boy stared so long he had to do _something_ about it.

“A commemorative photo?” When he asked, he half-expected the young man to gush forth like every other fan—professional skater or otherwise.

But the boy had simply stood there for a moment, then two, and then—

Then he turned away, and left.

“Yuuri! You don't want a photo with Victor?” the middle-aged man who Victor recognized as one of the announcers, called back to the boy. But the words simply pushed him away quicker.

Victor remembered his stomach twisting, then, and he hadn't been sure why.

“Moron,” his teammate had sneered, tugging at his white hood. “He should just give up already.”

Victor couldn't tear his eyes away from the treating young man. “Hm? Who is he?”

“Yuuri Katsuki. A loser.”

 _A loser_.

It wasn't far from the truth.

After losing at the Grand Prix, then Nationals, he didn't even make it to the Four Continents or World Championships. Not that Victor hadn't keep an eye on the roster. Not that he hadn't scrolled through the names, all the way to the bottom, twice over to see if he missed the name.

Yuuri Katsuki.

A loser indeed.

But here Victor was, a year later, sleeping under the same roof as that _loser_. The Yu-topia Hot Springs Resort was antiquated, but the springs themselves were rather nice. Quiet. Like the rest of the town of Hasetsu. Sleepy. _Boring_. What was worse, the hot springs had this unique smell about them—sweet water and honey. It permeated the entire place, drenching it like a bitter tea.

At first, he hadn't been able to place the smell.

But the more time he spent with Yuuri Katsuki outside, on the rink, anywhere, the more he recalled the sweetness. From the locker room in the Grand Prix. It had smelled like sweet water and honey then, too, and when he passed him in the galley just before he asked for that photo—

 _Stop it,_ he told himself, sitting up in bed.

His dog rolled over, paws twitching in a dream. He scrubbed him gently behind the ears before rising off his cot.

He needed some fresh air.

The resort was quiet at night, so quiet that when he walked the floorboards creaked, echoing across the entire house. He tried to be soft and quiet, shifting his weight to try and not make a sound. Mrs. Katsuki was a light sleeper, and he didn't want to be bothered tonight. So he tried to be quiet, only stepping on the cracks, hoping that it would be quieter than—

Footsteps treaded down the steps to the upstairs rooms. He cursed to himself as a shadow appeared at the end of the hallway.

Black hair ruffled, collar of his shirt sliding off one shoulder, no glasses. He looked best without glasses, Victor thought. Glasses hid his eyes, and Yuuri Katsuki had wonderfully warm brown ones.

Eyes that met his down the hallway a moment later.

Yuuri slowed to a stop. “Oh—sorry. I was just...” he hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other. “Do you need anything?”

 _Too much_ , Victor thought, before suddenly quieting the voice. Weird, wrong. He was his  _coach_.

Everyone asked why. They asked what he saw in this mediocre boy. Why he took one look at that youtube video and traveled to Japan to teach him. It wasn't something Victor could explain to anyone. It was a feeling, something deep in that hollow part of his stomach, that hadn't settled in more than a year. He'd been blissfully happy winning. He had been passionate about it. He'd been everything he ever wanted.

And then, suddenly, as he kissed his gold medal and smiled to all those faceless audience members he…

…He felt empty. He didn't know any of those faces. Any of the audience. That's all they were to him—people in seats waiting to appraise him, and he had just been content waiting to be praised.

But then this boy skated his show, with no audience, no praise, no medals to his name and he looked…like something that Victor hadn't felt in a very, very long time.

The feeling twitched at his stomach again, and it tasted like copper in his mouth, but he pulled on a smile anyway. “Just getting some water. You know an athlete should get eight hours of sleep.”

Ashamed, the black-headed boy looked away. “I—I'm sorry, I just couldn't go to sleep.”

 _Stop being sorry,_ he wanted to scream.  _Stop apologizing._

“You won't win anything if you keep making excuses,” he replied instead, unable to stop himself.

Yuuri winced. “I'm sorry,” he said again, turning on his heels to go back up the steps.

The feeling in his stomach swirled, stabbing. No, he didn't mean that. He didn't mean to smile and jab him with barbed words. He didn't mean any of it. God knows _he_ barely got six hours of sleep on a good night, his head always swirling like a paper airplane caught in a blizzard. He took another step—

It was too quick, too loud.

The floorboards let out a long creak, tattling.

Yuuri paused, glancing over his shoulder.

 _Too late, too late now_ , the hollow part of his stomach whispered. Victor swallowed thickly. “I could actually... I could use some company.”

The young man's eyebrows rose in question.

“I want to talk to you. Get to know you. You didn't let me when I first came,” he added, trying on his smile again to see if it fit any better. But it still felt strained. 

Yuuri seemed to blush in the dark, remembering when he'd playfully asked them to sleep in the same room. He hadn't meant it, of course. He  _had_ meant to play around a little, pull the younger skater's strings, but he hadn't expected the boy to be so...  _closed off_.

Especially when that video of him skating was so open. 

"Um, sure," Yuuri said with a half-shrug, and turned back down the corridor again. He seemed to float across the floor, soft and subtle. Then again, Victor had a feeling the boy had lived in this resort his entire life, so of course he knew every crack, every sound. The way he moved was like a slip of the shadows, a dance, and the boy didn't even realize it.

“You sneak around this place pretty well,” Victor commented as they made their way into the kitchen. 

“My mom's a light sleeper,” Yuuri replied, taking two glasses down from the cabinets and filling them with water. He handed one to him, and they drank.

Even the water tasted sweet.

He watched the younger man hesitate for a moment before asking, “So what would you want to know? I'm pretty boring, if we're being honest. I don't have much of a story...” He tilted his head, leaning back against the counter. “I grew up in Hasetsu, I joined the ice rink when I was younger...”

Victor stood by the island in the middle of the kitchen, listening. He leaned up against it, propping his head on a hand. “I'm not asking for your biography,” he teased.

Yuuri looked away quickly, blushing. “I—I don't know what else to talk about.”

“Any animals? Cats? Favorite fish?”

 _What's wrong with me?_ he thought, biting the inside of his cheek.  _Favorite fish? I don't care about fish._

But then what did he care about? Why had he asked? And why did he hang on Yuuri's answer, waiting for it? None of this made sense, not in the way it should.

He wanted to coach this mediocre skater because he saw passion. This kid had once been Japan’s top figure skater, so there was talent somewhere, too. And that got Victor to thinking. Perhaps he’d become so complacent because there was no one to challenge him. No one to compete against. He needed that sort of drive.

And if the world kept giving him mediocrity—he’d transform it. He would shape it into something better. And the only thrill Victor knew now was winning against someone who he could compete _against_. Without measure.

And that meant if he had to make this rival himself, he would.

He just didn't expect the boy to drive him crazy when he blushed.

“I did have a dog, once,” Yuuri began. “A small poodle. I actually named him—on second thought, it doesn't matter.”

“Of course it matters! Especially a poodle. What was his name?”

“No, really—”

“What was his naaaaaame,” he egged.

Yuuri's cheeks were burning now, his shoulders tense. He muttered something, but it was too low to hear.

Victor cupped his hand over his ear. “What was that?”

“His name was  _Victor,_ ” the black-headed boy forced out.

Now that was unexpected. “You named the dog after...”

Pursing his lips, the boy gave a curt nod.

“Ah,” Victor replied.

“It's stupid, I'm sorry—you were a really big inspiration to me.” The younger man swallowed, staring down at the tiles, looking anywhere but where Victor wanted him to look—at him. “I never had a lot of friends as a kid. I wasn't very good at anything, either. I loved skating, but I wasn't too good at that, either. Then I saw your performance at the Juniors Grand Prix and...it changed my life. I wanted to be good enough to compete beside you. I wanted to be your...” He hesitated. “I wanted to be your equal.”

Victor felt a blush rising on his own cheeks and quickly looked away, glad the rest of him was hidden by the counter. He splayed his hand out to cover a good majority of his face, hoping Yuuri didn't notice in the dark. They were silent for a breath, then another, as the wind chimes out in the hot springs chimed in the midnight breeze.

Finally, Victor cleared his throat. “What happened to the dog?”

“He...passed away a year ago.”

“A year?”

He nodded. “Just before the Grand Prix.”

Victor knew where this was going before he even have to say it. “You were distracted.”

Again, the boy nodded. His lips warbled, pursed tightly together. “I wasn't good enough.”

“Is that why you didn't want a photo with me? Because of one bad performance?”

Startled, Yuuri finally glanced back up, and met his gaze. “No. I…I didn't want a photo with you until we were equals. Until I could stand beside you as someone worthy of competing with you.”

_With._

A word Victor would never use.  _With_ , not against. Yuuri wanted to compete _with_ him. It wasn't a rivalry in his head, but a state of competition. It was being someone's equal, but as someone who had been unfettered and unmatched all his life, Victor realized he was at a loss of words.

To compete  _with_ someone.

With…

With _him_?

“So I...” Yuuri went on, “I want to be good enough to compete with you—”

He hadn't realized he had moved until he was halfway around the counter, and taking the black-headed young man by the cheeks. He wanted to know what those words tasted like. Competing  _with_. Being  _with._ Standing  _with_.

Kissing  _with_.

He had come to Japan to train a rival he could win against, but god how he hated himself for it the moment he pressed his lips to Yuuri's, tasting the sweet water on his tongue, wondering if he had been too bold or too brash or too wrong—

When he felt Yuuri's fingers curl up through his hair and he returned the kiss.

Kissing  _with._

Soft and quiet and  _passionate_.

Now this was person he'd seen in the youtube video, dancing his every move, knowing each moment better than Victor ever did, and god did the feeling in his stomach burn and squirm and spread like a wildfire. They broke apart for a moment, foreheads pressing together, eyes locking, and Victor was tumbling, tumbling into his warm chocolate stare. This was his rival. Who he needed to fight against. Who he needed to, to feel anything on the ice again but…

But oh, what would things have been like if he begun with _with_ instead?

“ _Prosti, pozhaluysta,_ ” he whispered in his native tongue, so soft against Yuuri's mouth he wasn't sure if he even said it. 

 _I'm sorry,_ the hollow part inside of him, filling, filling, begged,  _I'm so sorry._

He had come to Japan to make a rival, but he had been wrong, so wrong.

Yuuri blinked, searching his face. “Why are you sorry?”

He eased away a little in surprise. “You—you know Russian?”

“A little,” Yuuri admitted, becoming flustered. “I—did we just...I don't think...”

“Your dog,” he croaked in reply. “I'm sorry for your dog.”

And then he untangled himself from his student, and left the kitchen, the ache inside of him growing hollow again, filling over with ice and snow, the taste of sweet water on his lips.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to sleep from last night's kiss, Yuuri sneaks out to the rink hoping to clear his head. Hoping to find some sort of answer. He doesn't expect to find Victor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EPISODE THREE MADE ME FEEL THINGS.
> 
> also, still not beta'd so mind the grammar roadbumps!

Sunlight peeked through the closed curtains, dancing in slanted orange rays across his bedspread. Yuuri rolled over in bed, watching the snow fall gently outside of his window. April in Hasetsu was always white, and always cold—he expected that much coming home. But there were certain things he...didn't  _quite_ expect.

Like Victor.

And especially like last night.

Embarrassed, he pressed his hands against his face, curling into a ball. Had that actually happened? In the kitchen? His lips still felt cold and numb from the kiss, his insides squirming. It must have been a dream—only his dreams ever made him do stupid, stupid things like that. Like talking to Victor half-asleep. Like telling him about Vicchan. Like feeling his idol's warm lips against his, and sinking into them, wanting more of them. Wanting to taste the curve of his tongue, the—

He pressed his hands into his face harder. 

_Stop it!_

The man was _Victor Nikiforov_. One of the—no,  _the_ greatest ice skater of their time!

 _And he kissed me_.

If Yuuri could have blushed any harder, he would've. Every time he thought about that moment he blushed. Every time he  _began_ to think—

 _No_. No, this was  _super_  unhealthy. He had to stop. It was a freak accident. Victor was sleep-deprived. He hadn't been himself the last few days, anyway, so it was just a...a slip of his judgement. Victor was always warm, anyway. Flirty. To  _everyone._ It was stupid and reckless and hopeless to think for a moment that last night meant anything. 

...But what if it did? 

He couldn't lie to himself and say that he'd never  _thought_ about kissing Victor Nikiforov. He had enough posters of Victor on his walls, now stashed—hopefully forever—under his bed, to shame him into the truth. But it had always been this harmless sort of infatuation, like how you loved something so far away there was no possibility of it ever becoming requited.

Not that  _this_  was requited. Because it wasn't.

Yuuri was young, inexperienced, and—and not even in his league.

...But that didn't stop his head from going places. Or imagining Victor's lips going places or—

 _NOPE_.

Sitting up, he tossed off the covers and peeled off his night shirt, rummaging around in his closet for a clean pair of workout clothes. Admittedly, when he gained a little weight he hadn't thought to buy new clothes, so everything he owned still fit... if not a little stretched out. He hadn't cared, really. It wasn't like he wanted to impress anyone in  _workout clothes_. Or, when he glanced in the mirror on his desk, thought he had a body to impress anyone. He was toned, trim, like most figure skaters were destined to be—but there was nothing very striking about him. He wasn't broad-shouldered or sharp-cheekboned.

He was just...him. Tall, wiry, with a blade-length scar on his side from where he collided with Takeshi Nishigori on the rink when they were eight. Even fit, he didn't think he was very good-looking.

Not like Victor. And he'd gotten a  _full_ show of what he looked like thanks to the hot springs. The image bubbled to the front of his mind, but he quickly buried the image again. He hadn't buried it deep enough the first time, apparently. Or the memory of the Russian's chest against his last night, pressed together, muscled and broad and—

"Stop it, stop it, stop it," he muttered to himself, tugging on a thermal, and hopped into a pair of sweatpants. He needed to go clear his head. He needed to do  _something_. Today was rest day, so Victor would be at the rink. Victor liked to do other things—like drink.

Which meant  _he_  could go skate in peace.

And maybe skate whatever it was in his head out of it.

***

The rink was mostly deserted. There were a few families, tugging children along, teaching them how to balance on training blades, but it wasn't nearly as crowded as he remembered. Not like the rink used to be, filled with people all looping around each other in endless circles. He leaned against the railing to the rink, his skates feeling more natural on than any other shoe, and tugged on a pair of black gloves. He didn't know how long he stood there, watching the families, but it must have been long enough to attract attention.

"Well look who it is," came a familiar, sweet voice behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder. "Yuko—hi!"

"Didn't think I'd be seeing you today," she replied, leaning against the railing beside him. "Isn't it your rest day?"

"I  _am_  resting," he joked.

She grinned. "Dork. I should tell Victor you're at the rink..."

He began to pale. "No, that's okay—"

"Joking!" she laughed, and tilted her head, studying him. "What's on your mind, Yuuri?"

His eyebrows shot up. "What do you mean?"

"You always come to the rink when something's on your mind." 

That couldn't be true. He went  _other_ places. Like the ballet studio, or--or... "I...do  _not_."

She rolled her eyes. "I've know your for  _how_ many years? Come on, give me a little more credit. I can call a private rink for a while if you want to skate alone." She nodded out to the two families taking their children across the ice.

"Nah. It's free skate, isn't it?" Then, tapping the toe of his right skate on the carpet, he hopped up onto the railing and jumped over, landing on the other side. Ice sliced out from underneath his blades, making sharp  _tsks_. He liked the sound. Blades carving into ice.

Yuko glared. "You know you aren't supposed to do that."

He grinned at her, and began to move his feet back and forth, back and forth, pushing backwards across the ice. "Are you going to remove me from the ice?"

"I'll let Takeshi do that," she called after him jokingly, "and remember—"

"No jumps during free skate!" called another voice from the entrance to the rink. Takeshi, with their three kids. The kids rushed up to the edge of the rink, beginning to pull out their phones.

Yuuri held up his hand, acknowledging the rule.

"Got a phone call for you, darling," Takeshi added to his wife, and Yuko corralled her kids back out of the rink.

Instead, Yuko gave them a pointed look, and sent them back out of the rink. 

She looked... _happy_. Happy like she enjoyed waking up at six in the morning to buff the ice and shine the blades. Happy as if even though the rink was growing old, and people weren't visiting as often, this was the only place she wanted to be.

He wondered what that felt like. To not have any doubts.

To be simply and inexplicably  _happy_.

The skates beneath him picked up speed as he pushed backwards, around the curve of the ice. This was the closest he knew to happiness. It almost felt like flying. The sort of freedom where he could stretch out his arms and feel the wind whistle around him as he glided across smooth, white ice. The music that murmured from the rink speakers was some American pop song he heard while back in Detroit. 

He switched feet, twisting himself forward, bending into the next turn. One leg stretched out, the other bent, fingertips brushing the ice.

"Momma, look!" one of the children pointed as Yuuri glided past them. "I wanna skate like that."

The wind rushed by his ears in a roar.

 _I want to skate like you,_ he remembered telling the television, watching Victor Nikiforov twirl across the rink, long silvery hair swirling behind him like a comet tail. He was graceful. Like something out of a dream, arms moving through the air, a maestro to the world around him.

Yuuri concentrated, picking up speed. One foot over the other, pushing faster.

 _I want to compete with you,_ his own words rang in his head. 

How stupid could he be?  _Him_ , on the same playing field as  _Victor_? Victor, who commanded ice and snow and music and dance? Victor, who's only fatal flaw was that he was flawless?

 _Stop thinking, stop thinking,_ Yuuri told himself, taking another lap. 

The families had wandered to the edge of the rink, watching. Rink rules dictated that no one was allowed to jump during free skate. It was dangerous. And reckless. He moved faster, backwards, looking over his shoulder, finding a center spot in the rink.

Reckless--the one thing Yuuri was not. He'd always followed the rules. He'd always done as he was told. He was good. He was predictable.

 _Mediocre_.

Because he couldn't land a Salchow in competition. And competition was all that Victor cared about.

With a cry, he slammed his skate against the ice and jumped, twirling, Toes pointed, arms against his sides. One, two, three and a half--

He landed on one foot, stretching the other out behind him, traveling backwards, arms outstretched.

Then another. His blade struck the landing clean, fast.

His heart hammered in his chest, the thrill of the ice gliding underneath him, the sound as his blades sliced across the surface. He loved the sound, the  _tck-tck-tck_ of his skates as he pushed faster, the feel of the cool air on his skin.

He looked up.

And that was when he saw Victor standing at the entrance to the rink. The world narrowed. He lost his momentum. Forgot where the hell he was, to be honest. And slammed backward into the railing, flipping head over heels over it, landing on the harder-than-it-looked carpet.

"Yuuri!" Victor called, racing around the rink.

"Ow ow ow," he muttered, propping himself up on his elbows.

The silver-haired young man squatted down beside him. "Are you okay? Anything broken?"

"No, I--I think I'm fine," he replied. And then the horror of what just happened hit. He'd actually  _fell over the railing_. From  _looking at Victor_. He quickly stared at something--anything--that wasn't the silver-haired young man, cheeks burning like a bonfire. "I just--just lost my concentration."

Satisfied that his student wasn't injured, Victor rocked back on his heels. His eyebrows crinkled together, thoughtful. "That could be a problem in competition, then."

Flustered, Yuuri whirled back to him, scrambling to his knees. "It's not. I was just--just thinking. I'm fine!"

"What were you thinking so hard about that you ran into the railing?" Victor asked, smiling that same heart-shaped smile Yuuri wasn't sure if he liked or hated. It was barbed. Cut with something sharper than knives.

"N... _Nothing_."

"I'm not sure I can believe you."

"Not...believe me?" He wasn't sure how he could possibly prove that.

Victor stood, dusting off invisible dirt on his knees, and then reached a hand down to help him up. "Maybe it's just when other people are on the ice. I think I should find out."

"I don't..."

"Take my hand, Yuuri."

So he did, and Victor pulled him to his feet, holding tight. For too long. One second, two. Too close, their breaths mingling. Too close, remembering last night, Victor's lips against his, searching, trying to find something in the kiss that Yuuri hadn't even thought to give. 

It hadn't even occurred to him that it was something Victor might actually want.

And what about him? Did he want it? Did he dare to think he could?

But then Victor stepped away, and Yuuri could breathe again.

"I'm really fine. I just have a lot on my..." But he didn't even have a chance to complete his sentence before Victor kicked off his skate guards and stepped out onto the ice.

Victor swirled back, that barbed smile still on his face. "Well? Come on."

"What... I'm not following?"

"You're at the skate rink today, aren't you? And there's no one else on the ice." He stretched out his hands to indeed signify that everyone else had bailed off sometime between Yuuri flipping over the railing and getting back up. "So let's not waste a training day. I want you to dance to my Nationals short program."

"The... one from the video?"

"No, the one from my dreams. Maybe I can see why you keep landing wrong on your Salchows."

Yuuri hesitated. That was it? Just get right to training? 

 _But what about last night?_ he wanted to ask, but Victor seemed to have forgotten it.

Was it really not important enough to remember?

Of course not. Victor was a professional. He didn't have time for...

Yuuri clenched his fists and stepped out onto the ice rink again, gliding to his position in the middle of the rink. Victor stood to the side, hands on his hips, and shouted at Takeshi for the music to begin.

It did.

The song drifted over the ice like a foreign language. Timidly, Yuuri stretched out his arms and shoved off with his starting foot. The dance was a foreign language he knew better than he knew his own self. He knew every word, ever syllable, every jump and twist and stop.

It felt like a lifetime ago when he danced to it in front of Yuko, when he was deciding how to end his career, where to go next--what to do. Who to be.

He still didn't know who he wanted to be, after this season. After finals. After Victor.

But he knew he wanted to be happy.

He just didn't know what happiness looked like.

He jumped, spinning, spinning, and landed, blade cutting into the ice. His ankle wobbled-- _don't fall._

He raised his arms, closed his eyes, concentrated.

No--no he did--he knew what happiness looked like.

The sound of blades slicing against the ice rose over the music. Beside him, so close. The sound clipped in time to his own feet. He glanced over, and Victor skated beside him. Locked eyes. Brown to beautiful blue.

His nerves ebbed, and then dissipated.

They swirled around the rink, switching through the footwork like notes read on a cylinder in a spinning music box, turning, twisting, together.  

They switched back, moving across the ice, swinging their leading foot, gaining momentum--

And jumped.

One, two, three, toes pointed, find the landing and--

Their blades struck the ice together. Strong, resounding. They finished the program, and the the music swirled to a close, and they stood, frozen.

Then Victor glanced at him, and smiled.

Really, smiled. For the first time, smiled. Not barbed, not hollow, not teasing. 

Victor smiled at  _him_ , and Yuuri knew then what happiness looked like.

Chest heaving, trying to catch his breath, he broke from his pose and took Victor by the face. He was not reckless. He was guarded, and timid, and unsure. He lacked confidence, and genius, and talent.

But for the moment, he wanted to perfect. He wanted to feel worthy of dancing with this silver-haired man. Of sharing ice with him. Sharing air. Sharing a moment.

Victor's eyebrows shot up in surprise a moment before Yuuri pulled his face down, and kissed him in the empty rink.

For a moment, he wanted to be perfect. Happy.

And for a moment, Victor wrapped his arms around his waist, and let him.

 

 

 


End file.
